Trophy Bones
by Obvious Ghost
Summary: "You and me have to make it to the finals. It's a promise." Twilight Town plays host to a brutal, unforgiving contest, and only the determined- only the obsessed- can win. A Struggle story.
1. Round 1: The Smile and the Sword

The story goes like this.

Three hundred years ago, a man traveling from Midnight Moor to Twilight Town gets attacked by bandits. He's got no weapons- basically, the robbers assume he's gonna surrender his money without any trouble. Their swords are mostly just there to scare him, since the best of the group is half-rusted through and about as deadly as a shingle. The guy calls them out on it. Cut to a bunch of confused wannabe soldiers trying to bludgeon him to death with blunt pieces of ancient garbage.

You can guess the rest. See, this old man has a staff on him, and he starts swinging. Long story short, they head for the hills, and both cities somehow hear about it, so the leaders declare an honorary contest of fighting skill 'commemorating the courage of our citizens' or something. The road ends up mysteriously safe from robbers from then on, travelers start treating it like a sacred place, and the game itself...

Well, here we are.

The heavyset man at the edge of the arena reminds me of an angry bull. Nostrils flaring, eyes wide and twitching- I'm pretty sure he even scuffs the ground with one foot. He's using a two-handed grip on the club's hilt now, but he'll abandon it as soon as he gets caught up in the fighting again. The opposite of what you _should_ do, really.

The announcer said his name at one point. I forgot it instantly.

At the other side of the square, his opponent grins like a wolf. "Come on, chief," he calls out, and lazily swings the club in one hand like a propeller. "What's the holdup? Gettin' busy back there?" A laugh bubbles up from the spectators closest to him, and he rides the wave; switching the club to his other hand, he mimes jabbing it up into his rear, while jerking his free hand back and forth in front of his crotch.

Might not seem like it, but it's smart. He's building up his own confident persona, removing any sign of exhaustion, getting the crowd on his side, and most importantly-

The other combatant roars, lumbering forward, and it's obvious before he crosses half the distance that he's sacrificed every ounce of strategy and preparation for sheer, unguarded ferocity.

-getting in his opponent's head.

There's a moment, just before impact, where the cocky smile vanishes, and it's like I'm seeing a completely different person. His hair sticks up in every direction, dirty streaks only heightening the image of a wild animal, and the bruised, bare shoulders and torn cargo pants don't exactly seem like the markings of a champion fighter. And he's small- smaller than I really noticed before, and definitely smaller than the freight train rapidly bearing down on him.

But his eyes are focused, narrow, like he's not just unafraid of the collision; he's looking forward to it. Jokes or no jokes, he's in control. Sure, he played up the bravado, and the mocking lilt in his voice was disguising real exhaustion, but that's the difference. He can hide it. It's not obvious, but he's fighting to keep the tired from showing in any way.

The perfect shield. And he's using everything: the crowd, his taunting, the weariness, his opponent's rage. They're all swords and staves, blocking and striking.

He's practically cheating. I'm almost tempted to look away before the massacre starts.

The man who's already lost carries the momentum of his charge into a bellowing whirlwind of a swing, swiping the club horizontally in a flash. His target drops to the ground, letting the attack harmlessly pass by- and just as I thought, the club flying over his head is back in a one-handed grip, probably because its owner thinks he'll get a more forceful blow. Technically, he's right. But he also opened himself up, and as the backswing falters down and to the side, the other fighter leaps to his feet and slams his club into the man's unprotected midsection.

There's an actual gasp from the crowd as the big man makes absolutely no sound, only opening his mouth in a pained grimace. His lungs and stomach have probably gotten to know each other a lot better. I wouldn't want to get hit with a shot like that.

A shockwave rattles his body, and soon, the club itself trembles and shatters, Gummi blocks breaking away and falling to the ground. Not only is his weapon substantially weaker, but there's another consequence of the blow: the other fighter holds out his own Struggle club, and in an instant, the Gummi pieces magnetically fly towards it. Just like that, his weapon is stronger and bulkier.

So when the man, straining for breath, reaches up to block, a single blow is all it takes to knock the club from his hand completely.

The wolf's grin is back, and even though the crowd is loving it, even though half the town square is cheering and yelling his name, the young man just levels his club and points it steady. The other one's got one knee on the ground now, and he glares for a few seconds before simply nodding.

Victory by surrender isn't too common, but it happens.

As per usual, the fans jostle their way into the ring to get close to the winner before the announcer can tie it all up with a nice bow. I let the eager crowds move past me, quietly sliding back until I have room to breathe, and start making my way out of the square.

I don't need to congratulate him. He knows I saw.

I pause at the mouth of the alleyway, when the announcer's voice booms over the megaphone:

 _"Your winner, of the First Round, Red Bracket Match E, is-"_

There's a scuffle of noise, and a squeal of feedback. I imagine the fighter in question impudently grabbing the device away, shrugging off tournament officials trying to restore some semblance of order to the announcement. A different voice comes through next, one I know well, and I can practically hear the bright-toothed smile.

 _"...Hayner goddamn Griffin. Remember the name, 'cause you're gonna be cheering it tomorrow, and your girl's gonna be screaming it tonight."_

Heh. No one ever accused the guy of being classy.

I slip through one of the gaps between buildings, making my way past the mostly-empty Tram Common. Back in the Sandlot, the announcer's stammering again, doing his best to deliver the customary endgame speech about the glorious and noble traditions of The Struggle, celebrating the best of humanity's bravery and determination, with champions reaching the pinnacle of glory and fame on nothing but their own hard work, blah blah _blah_.

I'm not much of a believer. See, this version of the story sells a lot of T-shirts, and I get that, but I have another theory. Say you have two guys, getting in a fight or something. And one notices there are sticks all around. So he picks one up and starts whaling away, yeah? Well, what's the other guy gonna do?

Exactly. Now, all you really need is a third guy to look and think, "Hey, looks kinda fun." Just like that, you've got your origin story for the most popular sport in Twilight Town. Nothing's as glamorous as we imagine, you know?

Don't get me wrong, there's still the presentation. We've got the megaphones, and the rulebooks, and the tournament brackets- and the gear's all shiny and new, and the magic, and the tech, and the way the game itself exploded into entertainment and culture and tourism and matches that straight-up shut down businesses for most of the day... it's a pretty big deal.

But come on. I mean, watch a match sometime. We're still hitting each other with sticks. It's violent, it's juvenile, and the delinquents and degenerates coating the sandpits with blood and spit wouldn't have it any other way.

Besides, The Struggle's been around forever. This one's the... geez, the 46th Annual, I think. And that's only since we set up all the rules and stuff, besides the centuries of shadow leagues and backyard fights. It's practically in our blood.

Pretty soon, I'm climbing the slopes of the town's winding back alleys. The hideout's not impossible to spot, but most people don't care to search through two and a half dilapidated warehouses just to get to a nondescript _literal_ hole in the wall. Once I push past the curtain out front, I can see the entirety of the place: random boards and traffic cones littering the floor, posters for music festivals and a ragged dartboard on the wall, and a few brick columns stretching to the ceiling that shakes every few hours with another passing train, since the tracks run close enough to make the whole street rattle.

Home sweet dump.

The Sandlot isn't much better, but there's not much else to offer in this town. Where'm I gonna go, the skate parks? Please. Those punks have hated me since I scooped the illegal downtown tracks faster than they ever did, and didn't get caught. Only thing more satisfying was seeing their faces when I told them it was 'totally radical'.

S'pose I could get a real long-term job, of course. Join the long and prestigious history of our mail system. I might even make it a month before I papercut myself to death out of sheer boredom. There's the trains, I guess, but there are only so many places you can go. And I've already seen them all.

Plus, I'm not on the best of terms with the conductor, since he's had to kick Hayner off the train half a dozen times for trying to sneak a ride without paying. Or the mailman, come to think of it, who once lost half his delivery because Hayner accidentally riled up the city's stray dogs in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time. Or the shopkeepers Hayner's stolen from. Or the gangs Hayner's brawled with. Or the Struggle officials he's scammed.

There's really only one person in this town who doesn't hate me, and he's the reason everyone else does.

"D'ja like the show?" Striding in behind me, slapping a hand on my shoulder, the man of the hour flashes another one of his famous smiles before flopping down on one of the crates near the corner of the room. He stretches with a loud yawn, and now that I'm not on the edge of the crowd, I can see more clearly: the bruises are worse than I thought. Previous matches, or maybe a few blows from today's, have left their mark on his shoulders in particular- blue and black spots color the skin.

It's amazing he can still swing a club at all.

I hum a grunt in response, as he's come to expect, and he gives a barking laugh. "You're not hard to spot, you know. Hidin' all shifty at the edge of the group like some kinda creeper." Leaning his head over the edge, he looks at me upside-down. "I'm just so _touched_ you'd come out to watch your good friend kick some ass."

The wild side of it's never bothered me. Personally, I'm convinced the only reason Twilight Town runs the way it does is because we have a way of blowing off steam. A few broken forearms here and there, but it works.

Still, once in a while, I see someone like Hayner, and I wonder.

But I follow his example, and I don't let it show on my face. "Just... scopin' the competition," I say quietly.

He laughs again. He knows my first official match is later tonight. He knows I'm going to win, too, just like I knew he'd win his. "S'a good game," he says. "You'll have fun."

Fun. Sure. But I'm watching his eyes while he says it, and I know that the jokes aren't the point. He doesn't really care about the taunting, or the half-measures of fame, or even the jabs about sex. What he wants, more than anything else, is to get to the very top. He wants the title match, and he wants his name engraved on the Champion's Trophy- anything else would be settling. And Hayner's never been one to settle.

It's all or nothing.

He flips the club- now restored to regulation status- a few times, humming a nonsense tune, looking for all the world like a lazy teenager feeling pleased with himself after a game. But I know better. The Struggle's in his blood, just like it's in mine. A train rumbles down the tracks, and I smile, because there's something else- something even Hayner doesn't know.

I'm going to win the whole damn tournament.


	2. Round 1: Haggling Is a Goddamn Art Form

Wantz is a weird one.

He's standing in the front of the shop's stall, grinning up at me and looking for all the world like a sickeningly sweet little angel of a twelve-year-old. Eyes blinking wide, hair mussed like his dad just ruffled it by patting his head or something... it's a good act.

"Three hunnerd," he says confidently. Bright smile and twitching little nose and everything. Kid's a natural.

But he knows me, and he knows better. "That's a hundred each," I say, glancing at the rows of potions on the wall behind him. "Not a chance."

"Huh? Oh, sorry, mister." Wantz scratches the back of his neck. "Meant it's three hunnerd each."

...I don't know. He's used to charming customers into giving up their money, so maybe he really thinks he can pull off the con. Maybe he's just bored. Either way, I'm getting tired. "Shove it, alright? They're not worth that much."

The innocent beaming falters, and he's about to keep it going. Then he must see something that tells him I'm not playing, because he sighs. "Fine, douche. Offer?"

Just like that, the perfect little kid's gone. I cross my arms, deliberately looking over his head to the potions. "I'll give you a hundred for the three of 'em."

Wantz gives an incredulous scoff, cynical enough for someone twice his age. "F'you were lowballin' any more, they'd be scrapin' the ground. S'ain't a charity. An' if it was, I'd still ask for more than _that_."

He's still playing. The rules are just different, now. I've been here a few times, but I don't know him well enough to figure out the best way to argue. So I try a different tactic, slipping into the slang kids and teenagers use around Twilight Town. "Used t'could dope 'em lower," I say, only meaning that the shop had better prices before.

Shrugging, Wantz doesn't miss a beat. "Tournament's in. Dopin's up."

"But 'em's stiff. Times wouldn'a dopen _that._ " I've seen tournament prices other years. They weren't this bad.

He raises his eyebrows, as if saying, _Not my problem._ "Regrets, yeah?" An insincere, mocking apology. I can't stand shit like that.

Especially from kids.

"Nah." I lean forward, hands on the counter. "Hundred, or bail." Threatening to take my business elsewhere isn't really going to work, given this is the only shop in town with a decent supply of items, but I want to see what he'll do.

Wantz puffs up his chest, looking even more arrogant than before. "Bail, then." Another wicked grin, and he's practically shooing me away towards the main street. "Shove it, _lighthead_."

...That's not part of the slang. That's not anything. Just a kid trying to sound cool. I shake my head with a sigh. "Shoulda guessened. No dopin' right, no hissin' right neither."

It's not much of a jab. Just means he can't even swear properly. I don't expect it to really get to him, but his face tightens up for a second, and he grits his teeth before launching into a _torrent_ of cursing, and I have to admit- Wantz has clearly been around the city. There are a few in there I don't even know.

What I _do_ know is Wallace is probably in the back of the shop somewhere, and a few late-night failed robbery attempts by Hayner can testify that his hearing is legendary.

"WANTZ!" he roars, and there's a beautiful moment when the kid's face goes an off-white color like spoiled milk just before the big man himself comes lumbering up to the front. His eyebrows are as thick as the goatee that juts away from his chin like a horn, and he is _pissed._ "You mouthin' off to customers again?!" Before the kid can say anything, he cuffs the back of his head and jabs a finger towards the back room. "Get back there, an'- an'- take inventory or somethin'! I don't have time to tear your head off just now!"

I don't really say anything. I'm just watching the show. By the time Wantz has fled, panicking, to the safety of the stall's other room, Wallace turns to me with a tired smile- or at least, something a little bit less murderous than his expression a second ago. "Sorry, kid. What can I do for ya?"

Blinking, I try to snap back to the original reason I came here. "Uh, three potions."

"Sure thing." He sidles to the wall where most of the merchandise is kept. "Good to see you've got some money, nowadays," he calls. "What're you doin' for work?"

"Municipal projects, mostly."

Wallace gives me a look like I just told him _No, those aren't mine, I've never seen those drugs in my life._ "Really."

I shrug. "Common gets pretty filthy. The city's grateful whenever someone helps out."

He raises an eyebrow and says, "Just a good citizen, doin' your part to keep Twilight Town terrific?"

It's an old joke. There was an ad campaign a while back, insisting that 'true Twilight Towners try to keep the town terrific!" Universally hated, it's only ever quoted ironically, usually followed by a sarcastic groan.

I don't bite. "Of course not," I say. "I told you, I'm in it for the money."

Once again, that look. I get the distinct feeling that he's appraising me, making the decision whether or not merch is up to his store's standard. "Well, alright," he says, and marks down the transaction in some kind of logbook. Grabbing the potions from the back wall, he heads back to the window with a stern glare. "Two hundred for the lot."

I let a blank look pass over my face, just for a second. "...Damn," I say quietly, but I'm sure he can hear me. "I only have one-fifty."

"Two potions, then." He's getting irritated. I have to be quick. "Come on, kid. Let's go."

Pausing, I glance back to the items. "Look, I just- I need-" He doesn't respond. "They're not for me, alright? There's gotta be some way you can-"

"Not for you?" Wallace leans over the counter, fixing me with a suspicious stare. "...Griffin."

Backfire. This was a mistake. I wanted the sympathy, but I didn't count on him knowing exactly who I was talking about. And I can guarantee Wallace _despises_ Hayner. Once again, he's finding ways to terrorize the everyday elements of my life, and he's not even here.

But he sighs, and the look vanishes. "Ah, what the hell." Grabbing the potions, he shoves them across the counter disdainfully. "Try to keep that idiot out of trouble, yeah?"

"Yeah." With a grateful nod, I take off with the beginning of a monumental lecture ringing behind me, Wantz's grumbling replies only a faint echo. What a hassle. Honestly, I'm starting to warm up to Hayner's way of doing things.

Well, no. Stealing's a far cry from arguing with some punk-ass kid. But still, every time I have to deal with this, I lose a little more patience.

The spot isn't far from Market Street. I make my way through the alleys, hoping there'll be enough time to force Hayner to use at least one of the potions.

The other two are, in fact, for me. Tournament matches don't mess around. Besides, I only sort of lied.

I call his name when I step in. He's not out in the open, so he's either crammed away in the back corners, or...

Oh, shit. A few seconds' searching makes it obvious- Hayner isn't here. The only thing I find in the entire space is a note- some kind of official-looking invoice, wiith a stamp on the bottom. I get a closer look.

...Oh, _shit._

The name on the paper isn't one I recognize. Even so, I sigh and stash the potions behind some crates before getting ready to leave again. It's time to pay a visit to a... well, let's say 'friend'.

Because Hayner Griffin has just been arrested.


	3. Round 1: A Daring Rescue

"I'm calling in a favor."

Olette stares at me for a second, then laughs. "...Yeah, that's not how this works, dumbass."

She's right, of course. I'm definitely the one who owes her at this point. And with her being one of the junior officers of the Twilight Town Police Department (derivatively referred to as the 'TT Squad' in back alleys, which quickly became 'titty squad', and eventually just 'tits' as a general term for all cops), she's ended up witnessing firsthand mine and Hayner's more memorable screwups.

And salvaging them, too, which is why I'm here in the first place.

It was a shitty joke, so I let it go and sigh. I was lucky enough to catch her walking through the station's lobby area, with a cup of coffee in one hand- hopefully, that means they're not too busy. In fact, yeah, when I take stock of the rest of the building, it's a lot more quiet than I've seen it before. There's almost nobody here. Guy behind the window for visitation looks like he's about to fall asleep, and at the other end of the room, some bald dude walks past the hallway that probably leads to the rest of the building. Not exactly bustling with activity.

Even so, she's looking at me like I'm wasting her time. Given why I'm here, I might be. "Got a second?" I try to sound as calm and law-abiding as possible.

She glances down at the coffee, then back at me. "Actually, I'm incredibly busy," she says in a monotone.

"Oh, come on, this place is dead." I raise my eyebrows, pretending to be surprised. "Or, what, are you guys on high alert for that dipshit who let hornets loose in the commons again?"

Probably sounds like flirting, but it's actually more 'getting on the good side of my only connection to city law enforcement.' Besides, Olette knows me way too well to ever look at me and think, 'Yeah, maybe someday.'

She brushes past me, but keeps talking. "You would know; you've seen it busier, right?"

"Well, y-" Oh. Right. Okay, point to her on that one. It takes me a minute, but she's saying I've been the _reason_ for some of their busier days. Face red, I follow until we're both moving through the back of the lobby. "Look, what exactly did he do?"

"Officially, got him for disturbing the peace."

"And unofficially?" I try to lower my voice. These back corridors, closer to the cells, always echo. I don't like them.

Olette is still confidently moving forward. "Unofficially, the force is getting sick of his and Seifer's little love-hate shitfest. I swear, they're like a couple that fought all the time, got a divorce, and broke up, but forgot to stop fighting."

That gets me to stop for a second, so I hurry to catch up with her. "That asshole's back in town?"

"His whole crew."

…Well, isn't that just goddamn peachy.

I file that tidbit away to worry about later, and we keep moving past more electronically-locked cells. I am almost definitely not allowed back here, but Olette's smart- they're not gonna grill her too much for bending the rules a bit. I hope. "Did he at least give Trenchcoat Douchebag a black eye or something?"

She shakes her head. "Nah. Seifer probably provoked it, but Rai's the one who ended up fighting." Something twitches along the lines of her mouth- she's trying not to smile. "Hayner tackled him through a window."

Of course he did.

"By the time any of our guys showed up," she continues, "Rai needed several different medical procedures more than he needed handcuffs. Hayner, though..." A sigh, more tired than anything. "He's running out of second chances. Sooner or later, they're not gonna let him back out."

It's while I'm trying to come up with a response to that- because, even though it shouldn't, it really feels like it was pointed at me- that an officer I don't recognize steps into the hallway in front of us, then does a double take and glares down at me. "What're you doing back here, kid?"

"Visitor for Griffin," Olette says smoothly. She stops, though, making sure I pause too. Wouldn't be wise to mouth off to anyone, in here. "I thought there'd be no harm in letting him see him, at least."

"Uh-huh." He looks back to her, still guarded. "You know you're not supposed to be pulling this shit, Jameson."

She shrugs. "It's been a slow day. I didn't want to bother anyone else with it." Then, another sigh. "But you're right, sir. I apologize."

The officer grunts, then turns to me. "And what's your story, huh? What'd'ya want with G-" He stops, and looks more closely. "…Hey, I know you."

Goddamnit.

"Ward, right?" He barks a laugh. "You here on purpose, this time?"

Damnit, damnit, damnit, that fucking name. I swear, every time, I get one step closer to strangling somebody. Instead, I take a second to try to calm down, then casually reach for the potion in my pocket so I have a little more time to stop feeling like a cat with its hackles up. "I just wanna see my friend, sir," I say quietly, showing him the container. "He won't take this unless I make him. And after that, I plan to ask nicely if you'll let him off with a warning."

Olette raises her eyebrows.

Hey, I can do straightforward and honest. Sometimes.

The officer rubs his forehead, and I hear a grumbled 'Jesus' and a few other words that aren't nearly as holy before he looks back at Olette. "…Fine," he says. "Fine, just- you can handle this one. Running Griffin through paperwork and shit's always a pain, anyway." With that, he shakes his head and strides past us, back to the station proper.

I blink a few times, kind of surprised that actually worked. Maybe Hayner's not that big a problem, in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe they're just sick of him.

I mean, hell, it's not like there's any way Rai didn't have it coming.

"Now, look at you," Olette says as we keep moving. She sounds amused. "Mr. Rebel, suddenly playing nice with the cops. What a world."

"Yeah, well, I got a match later tonight. Can't waste time getting my wrist slapped for cussing out an officer."

She's facing forward, but I'm pretty sure I can _hear_ her grinning. "I've misjudged you, I guess. Model citizen, right here."

I toss it back, just as easily. "Can't let Hayner give _all_ the delinquents a bad name." It's nice. Back-and-forth. For a while, I can almost pretend things are different. But Olette stops in front of another door, and oh, right, I'm here to get Hayner out of holding.

At some point, this became par for the course in my life.

He's sitting on the cot, and his gaze swings up to both of us before breaking out in a huge grin. "Oh, that's absolutely precious," he drawls. "I am just overwhelmed with emotion, over here."

Before Olette can say anything, I'm in the middle of the cell, kneeling down to see him better. "You hurt?"

His smile falters. "Huh?"

"Are you hurt. From the fight." His shoulders are still screwed-up, but I can't see any other injuries. And with Rai, it's usually pretty obvious.

Hayner rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, Mom. Don't you worry about me. Now, Seifer's goon, _he's_ the one you should-"

My fist smacks the side of his head, and he yelps and jerks back, before breaking into a harsh cough-laugh. "I do _not_ have time for this, shithead," I say. "I can't believe you. You think this is funny? This whole thing's a big joke?"

"Oh my God." Behind me, Olette sounds weary and disappointed. "Roxas, you can't just punch people in a goddamn police station."

Hayner keeps laughing, and swats my hand away when I try to grab his shoulder. "It ain't just funny, man," he says through more chuckling. "It's the best thing I've heard all day."

My brain brings up a few different curses at once, so the next thing I say isn't really a coherent word at all, and I grab the potion and slam it down into his hand. "I should leave you here," I say. "You'd miss your next match, and you'd be outta the precious tournament you got such a hard-on for, and maybe then, just fucking _maybe_ , you'd learn something."

Shit. I'm losing my temper. This is the opposite of how I wanted to do this. He knows that he can rile me up, and he can just keep smiling the whole time, and I'll end up being a part of his bullshit, even in front of other people. Olette already thought I was an idiot, I'm sure, and I'm not helping my case.

Even though it doesn't make sense, I get the distinct impression that, in some way, Hayner is winning _._

He twists the spray lid off the potion, shaking his head. "No way, Rox," he says. "You know me better than that, yeah?"

And then, staring at me the whole time, he brings the potion to his mouth and drinks it. He _fucking drinks it._

Potions aren't complicated. The medicine's concentrated in a liquid form, and if you want, you can just drink it for a weak, but general health boost- adrenaline, metabolism, a bit of sped-up healing. Get a cut to stop bleeding more quickly. That kind of thing. Or, you can do what the potions are obviously meant for, and use the nozzle to spray it directly on the injury, which localizes the effects and heals whatever you're trying to heal.

And Hayner _knows_ this shit.

I stand up and calmly walk to the other end of the cell, to better stop myself from murdering anyone, and let my forehead hit the cell wall with a loud _thunk._ "Well," Olette says, "As fun as this has been, you guys are gonna have to flirt somewhere else." She pauses, probably turning to Hayner. "And officially, I have to tell you to stay away from Seifer's gang, and to stay out of trouble, and that this is your final warning."

"What about the last five times," I mumble, still with my face to the wall.

"Those were all the final warning, too." She sounds almost bored. "Look, Hayner, nobody wants to lock you up. We don't. But you're pushing it, and pretty soon, Roxas and I won't be able to bail you out."

"Oh, don't worry, _Deputy Jameson,"_ he says in a sing-song. I feel a headache coming on, and not just from hitting the wall. "I'll be a good little boy, from now on. Why, I'm sure me and Seifer will be best friends!"

She pretty much shoves him out into the hallway, and hits the switch to close the door as soon as I'm through. I'm about to say something else- which, honestly, will probably only egg him on more- when Olette catches my eye and mouths, _Later._ It shuts me up enough that I don't say anything else, until we're all back in the lobby.

"Oops," Olette mutters, when she sees the coffee cooling on a random desk. "Well, Officer Jones has been waiting for this for… about twenty minutes, now, so I'd better get going."

Hayner's already left- not before clapping my shoulder and giving one last smug grin- so it's just the two of us in this part of the room. "Yeah," I say, looking down to the floor. "Hey- thanks."

She gives an uncomfortable shrug. "No worries. He's a- friend. And so are you." It's cold and prim, like she's reading someone their rights. Still, it's good to hear.

I look up again. "Was there something else you wanted to…"

"Oh, right." She glances toward the exit, where the door is still swinging. "If you have a spare potion, get his right temple, not the shoulders. We think Rai got a punch in, right on the side of his skull, and he was… kind of loopy when we picked him up. We would've run him to the hospital, too, but he kept saying he was fine, and we couldn't prove it, so..."

"Shit." It slips out before I can stop it, but whatever. She's heard me say worse than that, in the last ten minutes alone. "Concussion?"

"Probably not. But… can't really take that chance."

"Right." One more thing to remember. And to think, I was originally hoping I'd have time to warm up before the match tonight. "Thanks again."

"Yeah." She's fidgeting, still, and I don't leave just yet. A strange thought jumps through my head- a memory, from a long time ago, when we were all camping out in the usual spot. Hayner, telling bad jokes and tall tales. Olette, smiling with some kinda hope instead of cynical disappointment. Even me- laughing at something Hayner said, getting excited about one of his big, impossible plans.

And over near the hideout's entrance, excitedly waving us over to come look at the sunset-

"One last thing." I snap out of it, and see Olette hesitating, looking at me with a dark, worried light in her eyes. But she pauses, and turns slightly, and shakes her head. "Just- never mind. I'll tell you later."

"…Sure." Something about it gives me a sinking feeling, but I push it away and nod. "See you around."

I'm nearly at the door when she calls out, "Hey- good luck. With the match."

I turn back, but she's already vanished into one of the offices or halls; the lobby's as empty as ever. "Thanks," I say anyway.


End file.
